


Breredon

by Rubynye



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Year of Troubles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kisses and tales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breredon

Title: Breredon  
Rating: PG  
Fandom: LOTR hobbitfic  
Pairing: Pippin/OFC  
Summary: Kisses and tales.  
Warnings: Not without angst.   
Disclaimer: Pippin, Breredon and Grindwall all belong to Professor Tolkien, along with the rest of Middle-Earth. I made Hawthorn up myself.

 

"So how," Pippin murmured into Hawthorn's soft brown hair, his arms snug round her little waist, "did such a lovely lass come to grace hoary old Budgeford? I know you weren't here when last I turned by Bolger Hall."

Hawthorn giggled sweetly as he nibbled her ear, her curls tickling his face. "Oh, you must tell me," Pippin pleaded, breathing warm on her neck to make her shiver, "I can't rest till I know where such a pretty hobbit hails from." He leaned forward to brush his lips over her nape, expecting her to giggle and maybe squirm round for a kiss, but with no more warning than a tiny gasp, Hawthorn froze in Pippin's arms.

For his part, Pippin gaped, his heart thudding in his throat as it hadn't for the past three skirmishes; it was several moments of dry-mouthed shock before he unstuck his tongue to tremulously ask, "Hawthorn?"

She didn't respond, neither word nor gesture. _What did you do now, you tom-fool Took?_, he thought, desperately trying to discern how he could possibly have offended her. Had he read her wrong, presumed too much? She'd had as bright a smile as any tween had for him and Merry in this bright spring after the dark year, and she'd kissed him first and twined their hands as he'd led her from the dance.

With a little sigh at the puzzlement of lasses, Pippin loosened his hold, but Hawthorn didn't pull away; however, neither did she speak, keeping so still she hardly breathed. Well, whatever foolishness he'd stumbled into this time, she hadn't fled, so perhaps he might mend it. Holding her in carefully loose arms, Pippin scrambled together wits and breath, but before he could rummage up pretty enough words to beg her pardon Hawthorn whispered, almost beneath hearing, "Where I'm from, Captain Pippin?"

Pippin opened his mouth to protest the title, thought better, and shut it again, and Hawthorn continued, steady and even and not quite so quiet he couldn't hear her voice tremble. "A little place called Breredon, between the Withywindle and the High Hay."

She paused, head tilted forward so her nut-brown hair hung round her face, and Pippin's belly clenched all the colder for the previous warmth. He'd heard tales told in this shocky-calm sort of voice before, soldiers' stories in Minas Tirith, slow grim words over pints of ale since coming home, middle-night murmurs while hands tightly clasped. He hadn't thought he'd hear such from a bright-faced lass he met at a dance, but perhaps after everything that had happened he ought to have. "I know of it," he said as encouragingly as he might, thinking of the Grindwall boat-landing and the small village on the curve of land above it, its strong nut-brown ale and smiling walnut-haired tweens. "Where the Withywindle joins the Brandywine."

Hawthorn nodded, drawing a great shuddery breath; For a moment all Pippin could think was how much he wished he could take his careless question back, have again the cheer of just a few moments before; but he remembered how those with such tales were usually better for the telling, so he swallowed back both apology and jest and made himself simply wait.

After a little while, Hawthorn laid her hand on Pippin's arm, and that was heartening, though her back was still poker-stiff. "So it was," she murmured, "tucked away out of notice, or so was thought. Mr. Davy Chubb-Took came to us for a time, bringing his gallant rebel lads and his grand cheer, bringing us all hope; for our part we gave them lodging and aid and praise, and my elder sister gave Mr. Davy her heart. Then the Men hunted out Mr. Davy's band, and in the night they burned Breredon and the Elvet Isle."

A belly-blow from a sword hilt might have hurt less than Hawthorn's quiet words. Helplessly picturing the holes and houses afire, hobbits screaming as they fled for the water and the swans honking as they struggled up on flaming wings, Pippin winced before he could stop himself; he bit his lip and silently kicked himself when he felt Hawthorn's answering shudder. Once he would have shouted or sworn, wept with her and then desperately joked; now he held his tongue, and held Hawthorn a little more tightly, as his eyes prickled sympathetically and he felt the pound of her heart through her back. All the while, her words kept their terrible even pace. "Those of us as made it out, the Men dragged up out of the stream to rope together and marched us off, heading for the Lockholes. Two days after, though, a Quick Post messenger brought them word of some mischief as wouldn't wait, so dashing off they left us by the Budge Ford Bridge, and the Master and Mistress Bolger and the folk of Budgeford took us in."

Hawthorn's voice broke on the last word, and Pippin held her as best he could as her shoulders shook, trying to remember in which pocket his handkerchiefs were. But Hawthorn didn't weep after all; instead she heaved some ragged breaths, stilled herself with an effort that made him ache to feel it, and said, in a voice evidently meant to be light, "So I came here, Master Pippin, and I've gone on too long already." Turning round, Hawthorn gave Pippin a brittle smile that didn't reach her wet eyes.

Even a false smile was somewhere to start. Pretending to be fooled by it, Pippin gave her his widest most cheery smile in return, and said with his own feigned airiness, "ah, fair one, I'm simply simple Pippin." Smiling a little better at those words, Hawthorn leaned towards Pippin, and he cupped her face in one hand and kissed her closed eyes.

That startled a small giggle from her; then she set her shoulders and dutifully tried again to kiss Pippin on his mouth, but he ducked--- Pippin ducking a kiss? He could have laughed---- and kissed away her tears, kissing her cheeks and nose and chin. At first he thought to leave off once he had any idea what he would say, but Hawthorn's giggles shaded away from half-sobs towards laughing sighs, and her tender face felt lovely as it warmed beneath his mouth, and her back eased and curved within his arm, so he kept on with it. When he finally did draw back he saw Hawthorn's smile was real and true and her eyes still wet but shining; he opened his mouth, still having no idea what to say, but it didn't matter, for she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him past all chance or need of words.


End file.
